Page 47 of The Lyon Returns
She had started to smile, but the words he’d tacked on at the end brought a frown of displeasure.
He cursed inwardly. “That did not come out right.”
“No, I expect it did not,” she agreed without hesitation.
He barked out a laugh. He never knew what she would say, whether she’d be shy or bold, confident or hesitant, easily offended or impossible to ruffle. He damned sure hadn’t anticipated her spoutingoff anecdotes from his childhood. So many mysteries surrounded his bluestocking wife.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor, distant, yet clearly coming this way. The perfect excuse.
Without giving her an ounce of warning, he grasped her shoulders, leaned down, and pressed his lips to hers.
The contact was meant to be brief, but her lips tasted of peppermint and sugar and an indefinable sweetness that begged to be savored a little while longer. He slanted his mouth over hers, immersing his senses in the intoxicating elixir that was Gwendolyn Barnes.
Her lips were every bit as full and inviting as he’d known they would be. But he could not help noticing Gwen held herself statue still. Seconds, that felt like hours, ticked past. Then, her shoulders relaxed, her lips softened, and her face angled upward.
Satisfaction roared through him. She was not immune to him. He flexed his hands on her shoulders, drawing her closer. The light brush of her body against his was like wind feeding a hungry flame.More,his body begged, enjoining him to back her into the cold plaster walls of the corridor to feel her lithe, sleek, pliant form under his.
No.This was neither the time nor the place.
With an effort of sheer will, he released her, lifted his head, and gazed down at her upturned face.
Her eyelids fluttered open, slowly, not rising past half-mast. She stared at him with those unblinking, bluer-than-the-Caribbean-sea eyes as if peering into his very soul. An odd yearning twisted his insides, and the desire to kiss her again pummeled his restraint. Try as he might—and he tried—he could not resist. He cupped her impossibly smooth cheeks with hands he could swear shook and lowered his mouth.
The split second before he made contact, the sound of humming, the clang of keys, and the accompanying footfalls reminded him of his supposed reason for kissing his fake wife in the first place. He froze,stunned by the derailment of his self-command.
The sounds abruptly halted. A moment later, whoever had happened upon them started in the opposite direction, moving in double-time.
He withdrew his hands, lifted his head, and somehow aimed a sardonic grin at Gwen, even as he absorbed the sight of her—lips parted, cheeks flushed from his kiss.
The Black Widow of Whitehall had asked if he found Gwen pretty. He’d admitted he did. Just now he’d told Gwen the same, albeit in the most back-handed compliment possible.
In both instances, he’d lied. The woman was, with her fine-boned, aristocratic features, straight, pert nose, and pale-gold hair, stunningly beautiful.
Irrelevant, he told himself. He was neither courting nor seducing her. He was playing a role, as was she, and he’d just cemented the legitimacy of their fake relationship in the eyes of the staff.
Keep telling yourself that, Devereux.
Seemingly unperturbed, Gwen squared her shoulders, smoothed her skirts, and nodded once, as if acknowledging her perfect understanding of what had just taken place.
For some reason, her calm demeanor annoyed him.
“If there’s nothing else?” she asked coolly. “I have work that I wish to attend.”
Without a word, he gestured for her to go, then jerked the door to his den open with, strictly speaking, more force than necessary.
He stepped inside to the sight of Brice leaning against the mantle, the picture of a man hitting his stride. Not a hair out of place, not a whisker marring his cheek, the gleam of his hessians visible even from where Gideon stood. To look at him, no one would guess his middle-class roots as the firstborn son of the magistrate of a small farming village.
His dark eyes danced with sardonic amusement. “My God, Gid,you’re beyond smitten. I had my doubts—not that I would’ve blamed you, for inventing the pretense as the marriage settles matters for you very tidily.”
Gideon rolled his eyes but bit back the denial on his tongue over the man’s audacious claim. After all, he needed his and Gwen’s marriage to go unquestioned. But smitten?Ridiculous.
“To be honest, I also wanted to assure myself you hadn’t bound yourself with another Fannie. To look at her…” He broke off, holding his hands palms up as if two sides of a scale. “But now that I’ve seen the way you look at her…” He left off, placed his hand over his heart, and pat in the rhythm of a heartbeat. The gold rings he wore glinted in the lamplight.
Gwen was no Fannie. Any fool could see that.
Although, to be fair, he’d assumed as much upon meeting her. The perfect English rose, poised and polished, and likely as not, equipped with thorns as sharp as a feral cat’s claws.
He strode toward his desk, rounding it to take his chair. “If by all that you mean we appear to get on well together, you are correct. Her temperament suits me. She makes very few demands.” He paused deliberately. “As you’re here, I have a few questions for you.”
